Checkmate With Bishop: A Hellions MC Novel (5 page)

But he was sensing them then.  Feeling them slithering through him like a den of snakes, through his mind and heart so strongly that he couldn’t escape their touch.  And the fact that he couldn’t get rid of them, couldn’t control them, pissed him right the fuck off!

Okay.  So he was angry.  Admitting the emotion, of being mad was the first step in process if he remembered correctly. 

But he wasn’t just peeved, he was enraged!  And as Bishop allowed his fury out of the carefully crafted cage he’d kept it in, he idly noted his body’s response.   Tightly clenched muscles, heavy deep pants through flared nostrils and eyes squinting so hard the muscles around them hurt, all gave evidence to the snarling of his mind.  Even his fucking toes were curled into the carpet as if they needed something to hold on to. 

Why, though?  Why was he so motherfucking boiling to the max?

Unable to sit quietly any longer, Bishop shot to his feet as the first word hit his mind and spewed out of his mouth on a roar.  “Unfair!”  And the one word released a torrent of bitter anger which as it gathered strength included more words.  “It’s motherfucking
unfair
!”

“I’m too goddamn
young
to die!”  He was poised on the carpet as if he was going into a physical fight with hands fisted, knees soft while every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation.  Needing an physical outlet for the adrenaline flowing freely, he pulled back a foot and kicked the nearest box as hard as he could, the top flying through the air as the carton flopped onto its side, flinging its contents across the floor.  And as he stood over the tangled pile of papers and pictures, Bishop knew the one kick wasn’t going to be enough to lessen the storm raging inside.

So he booted it again harder, watching in satisfaction as the side of the cardboard caved in at the force of his bare toes before the entire box turned upside down.  He could hear his jagged breathing as well as the shuffle of papers in the quiet of the room, even over the screaming of his mind while his mouth yelled words like unjust, stolen and the like.  All emphasized and liberally sprinkled with eff-bombs.

Giving full rein to all that was seething inside, Bishop didn’t pay a damn bit of attention to his actions allowing his body to do what it wanted.  And it seemed all his flesh and bones desired, all that it goddamn-well
needed
,
was to destroy, to maim.  Since he couldn’t beat the ever-loving shit out of the pain, the disease that was eating him alive, it was the cardboard that received the full brunt of his wrathful fury.

It didn’t take long though for his weakened body to deplete itself and he dropped to his knees right in the middle of the papers, file folders and pictures that flooded the small room.  Sweating profusely and panting in the aftermath of his temper, Bishop had to admit he felt better.  More in control than he’d been when he’d first entered the room.

Shifting his weight to his ass as the adrenaline slowly drained away, he laid down and stretched himself out right on top of old tax forms and snapshots, of cancelled checks and forgotten certificates.  And lying back on his bed of paper memories that marked the passage of his time on earth, Bishop began to smile.  The smile though soon turned into chuckles before morphing into full-on guffaws that rang throughout the room.  Laughter so deep and real that he had to hold his sides while his eyes leaked his mirth.

As the laughter eventually left, his first thought was congratulatory.  So he made a point of saying it out loud.  “Pretty good fucking temper tantrum, dude, for an old sick fucker.”

Bishop closed his eyes but the smile remained and stayed in place while his body relaxed into sleep.

*.*.*.*.*

“…so then he says…” Chet’s voice droned on and I tried to keep an interested look on my face.  Had he always been so boring?  I wasn’t sure.  All I knew was that my head was filled with the memories of another man, a rough-and-tumble, wild-assed biker who had more excitement in his little finger than I discovered Chet to have in the six months we’d been dating.

But Chet was safe and more secure in his future than any other man I’d previously met.  He was upright and moral, a business owner and a pillar of the community.  A much safer and steadier choice of partner when all was said and done.

Why then were my thoughts tangled up in the past, reliving moments of a marriage that I’d run from and memories that I usually wouldn’t willingly allow to surface?  Was it because of the unexpected phone call? 

I still couldn’t figure out why Stan had reached out.  Did it have anything to do with how different he’d sounded?  How the velvet bass voice had held a weakness that I knew hadn’t been there before.

“Earth to Dory!”

“What?  Oh, I’m sorry.  Did I miss something?”  I could feel the heat hit my cheeks as I let my eyes connect with Chet’s before sliding away to glance around the busy, though elegant restaurant.  It was the same one we ate at every Saturday night and I had already memorized the menu, the décor as well as the staff.  This was a good indication on how little interest I actually had in the man sitting across from me, his features barely illuminated by the small candle that graced the table.

Chet gave me a small smile and leaned forward.  “I just asked what you would’ve done in that situation.”

Shit!  I had no idea what he’d been talking about and just as I opened my mouth to admit to my inattention, Lori thankfully arrived with our wine.

“Here’s to Saturday!” Chet toasted his glass to mine, his smile making it to his eyes before he dipped his head to drink.  He was a good man, an urbane, smart and cultured gentleman with great manners.  A good catch as my mother would’ve said. 

 The type of man she’d always envisioned me marrying.  Not like ‘that boy’ as she used to call Stan.  And I knew even as Stan and I had exchanged vows at the courthouse, she would’ve been rolling in her grave, trying to move heaven and earth to prevent me from tying my life to him.  And she hadn’t even known he was a Hellion Motorcycle Club member.  But all her warnings, threats and pleas had fallen on deaf ears because from the moment Stan had first come onto my teenaged radar, he had been
it
for me.  He was the only one I’d wanted.

“Are you all right?” Chet asked as Lori set our salad plates in front of us with a smile.

I took a few seconds to carefully consider his question before answering.  Was I all right?  At that moment, I wasn’t sure I was.  But how do you explain to your latest beau that your ex-husband and the father of your child was taking up most of your brain and emotional activity?  “I’m not…I guess I must be coming down with something.”  The lie stuck in my throat and I felt my face heat at my cowardice in not telling Chet the truth.  But then, I’d never in the whole time we’d been dating, told him anything about my past.

Chet reached for my hand across the table.  “I’m sorry, Dory.  Here I’ve been blathering on and on while you’re not feeling well.”  His eyes held sympathy which only made me feel worse.  “Maybe we should cut dinner short and just go straight to my place.”

I felt my stomach do a nauseous roll at his suggestion.  One that wasn’t out of the norm since we typically ended our Saturday nights doing his version of the horizontal mambo in his bed.  But the thought of having vanilla sex with Chet while my heart was providing memories of Stan’s sexy, wild ways had me almost shuddering.  And the fact that when told I wasn’t feeling well, Chet suggested we go straight to bed?  Not good.

“I think…maybe I need to just go home,” I declared firmly without looking at him, which I knew was from the guilt I felt in comparing him to another man and finding Chet more than lacking.  “If you wouldn’t mind settling the check...”

Chet drew back and released my fingers in order to signal to Lori.  A move that I took as my cue to leave the table.  Yeah, I knew it was chickenshit to go hide in the Ladies room, but I needed to pull myself together in order to endure the drive home.  Although why Chet’s company was something I no longer wanted was a mystery.  Up until Thursday night, I’d been more than happy with him. 
Well, maybe not happy as much as content,
I admitted to myself as I gathered up my purse and pashmina.  And I hated that thought. 

Hated that with only two phone calls, Stan had rocked my boat, upsetting the life I had so carefully put together.  Had reminded me of the life we’d shared before and how very plain and lackluster my existence was in Casper.  Comfortable, yes.  Exciting in any way, shape or form?  Not so much.

I stared at my reflection in the restroom mirror as I reapplied my lipstick, seeing the haunted look in my expression, which I hoped Chet would think was because of the imaginary ailment I’d invented in order to end our date and avoid his bed.  But as excuses went, it was a good one since Chet let me off at my front door with only a kiss on my cheek while murmuring, “feel better, darling.” 

The quiet of my house was like a balm and found me relaxing almost as soon as I’d entered.  With J.R. staying the night with a friend, as was his typical Saturday night activity after spending a day helping out at Luscious, I had the whole of my home to myself.  An older place that had needed a lot of TLC and elbow grease to bring it up to date, but even I had to admit that when all was said and done, it was cozy and charming.  Just the right size for me and my boy even if there was only one bathroom.

I walked towards my bedroom, casting my eyes over the rooms as I passed through them.  I had spent years updating the 1940’s built house:  replacing the roof, repapering the walls, updating the electrical and plumbing and had even redone all the tile-work myself.  It had, in bits and spurts, become a haven for both myself and J.R.   And never had I needed its peace more than I did that night.

A night that found me yearning for something I didn’t want to name.

After changing out of my summer dress and heels into my sleep shorts and tank top, I found myself digging into the deep recesses of my closet.  Searching for a small shoebox I’d shoved into the farthest, darkest corner which held the physical memories of a time long past, but which obviously hadn’t been forgotten.   I sat on my bed, my back to the pillows I’d piled against the headboard while I stared at the box, just the tiny cardboard rectangle that contained photographic evidence of my youth, of the young and hopeful girl I’d been.

I remembered shoving things into it, grabbing and snatching the pictures in my haste to eliminate my presence from mine and Stan’s apartment.  Almost ripping the photos out of their frames as I’d packed.  Grabbing and snatching at the various mementos with tears streaming down my face as I moved as quickly as I could in order to just…get
gone
.  And in looking back at that moment in my life, my heart broke again only in that instance, it was for the young woman I’d been.  For her hurt, despair and anger at the death of her marriage.  At the demise of her hopes and dreams for a future that her young husband hadn’t shared.  And for the pain she’d both inflicted and had received in return.

“You need a drink,” I announced as I continued to eye the box like it was some kind of feral animal plunked in the middle of my comforter.  “You can’t do this sober.”

Which was more than telling since I couldn’t remember being drunk the whole of my time in Casper.  I wouldn’t allow my control slip, not there.  I had too many responsibilities to let go, to let loose.

But there was no way I was going to be able to face the past,
my
past, stone-cold sober.  And I knew I had a bottle of tequila stuffed into the cabinet over the fridge.  An uncapped, unopened bottle that seemed to, even five years after being gifted, call my name at that moment.  With a backward glance at the shoebox, I made my way to the kitchen and swallowed a couple or three shots shuddering deeply after each hit my throat.

The glow, though. 

Damn, the glow of the remembered drink was heaven and took away the last of my trepidation.  It had been
our
drink of choice back in the day.  Something Stan and I shared on too many occasions to count.  And the taste of it, the feelings that came with the heat that then lined my belly, I had to admit, were awesome.

Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and lowered my chin in determination as I marched back into my bedroom.  Climbing back up onto my bed, I crossed my legs Indian-style and pulled the cardboard box towards me, pulling the lid off and flinging it off the mattress. 

No freaking, stupid box was going to get the better of
me
!

Luckily, the papers on top were simply receipts.  Receipts for the self-storage locker I still maintained in Missoula after I’d sold my childhood home when my mom had passed.  Thirteen receipts showing the annual payment for a 10 x 10 space containing items I’d deemed important enough to keep, but not to carry with me when I left.

Putting those in a pile to the side, I hit the first of the rest.

The pictures.

The photos of me…of him…and of us.

Of the ‘us’ that we used to be.

And the viewing hit me so hard, so deeply, I shut my eyes to rein in the dizziness.

Seriously? 

Had I really been that pretty?  That young?

And that in love? 

Oh god, the look in my eyes as I stared into the camera that I remembered Stan held as he coaxed me, teased me into smiling.  It was there, all the love I’d held for him was fully exposed for everyone to see.

Had I ever been that open, that vulnerable?

I watched as my thumb traced over my eighteen year old face before it moved to Stan’s.  He hadn’t been what?  Twenty?  But, god.  He was gorgeous, his golden skin and hazel eyes framed by his dark brown shaggy hair. 

And that smile.  How had I forgotten that happy look when I had seen it every day on J.R.’s face?  A smile that was so full, so sincere, it made your own face crease in return.

I slowly shuffled through them, those photographs that chronicled our time together never realizing I was crying until I heard the hitch in my breath.  A deep catch that took me out of the past and back to my thirty-six year old self.  One which held evidence of my mourning in streaming eyes and nose.  But then grief, even of the remembered variety, was never pretty.